To the south of colorful clouds and phoenixes, the moon hits the west tower;
Where do I think about the mirror? Loneliness locks the autumn;
The ink turns to ashes and the city sheds tears; the pen leaves the flowers and I lie down drunk on my knees;
How can I die if I have achieved success? I would like to be a mandarin duck and not envy the immortals.
"Disciple, are you beautiful as a teacher?"
"Beautiful..."